"Is this Job Bowen's house?" asked the old man; for they were walking leisurely past the shoemaker's residence.
"Yes; here lives patient Job, the wooden-legged philosopher," returned Deacon Dustan, good-humoredly. "What of him?"
"I was there, the other day, and promised to come again. I don't know when I shall have a better time. After I have said good-day to the family, I will tell you something about new meeting-houses. Will you go in too, Brother Corlis?"
Mr. Corlis could not refuse, although he would much rather have remained without.
"We will all look in at the door, if you please, gentlemen," said Deacon Dustan. "Job is a curiosity."
"I was just thinking that Job's family would have considered a dish from your generous table to-day a very pleasant curiosity," observed Father Brighthopes.
"Oh, Job is not quite a stranger to my dishes," returned the deacon, quickly. "I should be sorry to say that he was; and I should be sorry to have you think so."
With a smile of sunshine, the old man disclaimed the remotest idea of insinuating such a suspicion.
"A fat dish may be considered a curiosity to a poor man at any time, you know," he added, with tender humor. "Even a cold potato and a crust of bread are often great sources of delight, when accompanied with a kind word, and a cheerful, encouraging smile, from the charitable giver."
Deacon Dustan opened the door, without knocking.